A review by joanaprneves
La Honte by Annie Ernaux
dark
emotional
mysterious
reflective
sad
fast-paced
4.25
This is my first Annie Ernaux book, surprisingly. I had picked it up when I was about 18 years old and studying in Paris but thought it was too feminine (I was clearly not yet a feminist and not used to reading female voices). I regret not having tried more. Instead, I gave in to Marguerite Duras who, I find, hasn't aged as well and caters to the male gaze quite a lot (but I may have to review this opinion, based on old readings).
It seems incredible to me that this was published in 1997. Or perhaps not. Published authors were allowed to be much more playful, to break the 4th wall (if you can apply this to writing), to deconstruct memoir narratives etc. I love this book because it is an attempt to write a book, and not a kind of storytelling that flattens the thing-you-want-to-talk-about to make it palatable, which is the problem in a lot of popular fiction nowadays. Ernaux shares her hesitations, a conflicted view of writing about an abyssal experience for her when she was 12 years old, that propelled her into a fear that no one ever bothered to take away from her. But this episode is the central part of a cluster of other indignities: children live a very social life, they go to school, they are constantly judged and appraised and therefore, they unveil the inequities of a society that separates according to class and money. Shame and shaming become part of their world, a sort of abject feeling one avoids in order to keep living. This is what this book is about, and it is marvellous in its impossibility to become a Story. It is a sharp, fragmented form of writing, where the author tries her best to expose everything while still needing to parenthesise, to explain, to contextualise some feelings, impressions. She makes a big effort never to explain, never to make it a story about growth. Because, as she says very well, shame never leaves you. You can understand it, regret it in hindsight, recognise what your shame was a mechanism of, but it never really fades. I loved this book and only wish it could have gone on longer, thus the 0.75 missing marks for a full blown five star review.
It seems incredible to me that this was published in 1997. Or perhaps not. Published authors were allowed to be much more playful, to break the 4th wall (if you can apply this to writing), to deconstruct memoir narratives etc. I love this book because it is an attempt to write a book, and not a kind of storytelling that flattens the thing-you-want-to-talk-about to make it palatable, which is the problem in a lot of popular fiction nowadays. Ernaux shares her hesitations, a conflicted view of writing about an abyssal experience for her when she was 12 years old, that propelled her into a fear that no one ever bothered to take away from her. But this episode is the central part of a cluster of other indignities: children live a very social life, they go to school, they are constantly judged and appraised and therefore, they unveil the inequities of a society that separates according to class and money. Shame and shaming become part of their world, a sort of abject feeling one avoids in order to keep living. This is what this book is about, and it is marvellous in its impossibility to become a Story. It is a sharp, fragmented form of writing, where the author tries her best to expose everything while still needing to parenthesise, to explain, to contextualise some feelings, impressions. She makes a big effort never to explain, never to make it a story about growth. Because, as she says very well, shame never leaves you. You can understand it, regret it in hindsight, recognise what your shame was a mechanism of, but it never really fades. I loved this book and only wish it could have gone on longer, thus the 0.75 missing marks for a full blown five star review.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Domestic abuse